


Gestures and Sounds

by marginalia



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-22
Updated: 2003-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-07 14:13:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10362249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalia/pseuds/marginalia
Summary: Contrelamontre soundtrack!fic challenge. "Best Imitation of Myself", by Ben Folds.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Contrelamontre soundtrack!fic challenge. "Best Imitation of Myself", by Ben Folds.

_If these shadows have offended_  
Think but this and all is mended.  
That you have but slumbered here  
While these visions did appear  
\-- Puck (epilogue, Midsummer Night's Dream)

Dom has it down to a fucking art. He can ham it up on cue, perform impressions of the cast and crew at a moment's notice, and design brilliant practical jokes at the drop of a hat. That's his job, he's Dom, the clown, the ultimate hobbit, the village idiot.

He can do it, no problem, because he's an actor. It seemed a natural career path for a boy who had made a life out of pretending. Saved him from a life of crime, for he would have been the perfect con artist, spinning his self-definition into whatever his listener wanted to hear.

His mom said that when he was little she used to catch him in the bathroom, carrying on conversations with himself in the mirror. He'd blush and deny it, but inside he would note another perfect fucking performance from the slightly embarrassed son. Just the right shade of red stained his cheeks, his voice caught just so, god it was beautiful.

Beautiful, like the nameless girls he brought home when the nights got too lonely. Girls trapped oh-so-easily in his web, blinded by the spotlights on his stage, captured by his words and his smile and in spite of his crooked jaw and jutting ears. Right? Of course. He knew girls, knew what they wanted wasn't him unless he convinced them. Convinced them without allowing them to see the art. A magician's sleight of hand.

He was an expert at showing people what they wanted and making them think it was him.

All a dream, an image, an impression of Dom. Alone in the shower, water rinsing away the different versions of himself he had been that day, he would stretch out, lock his elbows, brace his hands on the shower wall, and wonder what would be left when all the shadows swirled and drained away.

In New Zealand the shadows never really leave. He is one half of a perfect double act. In Billy he finds a match, a fellow showman, the foil for the Dom-of-the-moment. It's a familiar role, but a tiring one, the same mask on and off set.

It grows heavy, and Dom thinks of letting it slip. Considers it in the quiet time. Ponders the weight of letting Billy in. And wondering if there is anything to see.

He tries one night, but a new mask appears. But first a flicker in his eyes, one it seems Billy has been waiting for, and it should be perfect. It's not yet, but it should be. For Billy. So Dom spins his spell around them. Billy glows, melts into Dom, mutters "took long enough, you bastard," and for a moment all masks fall away and Dom's eyes are open and empty.

But Billy's are closed, lost in the imitation and missing the original.


End file.
